Dakar hastened on before Caolle's impatience could shatter the morning quiet.

If the wide, tranquil lanes by the barge docks met misty daybreak in restraint, by contrast, the harborside reflected a livelihood steeped from the rowdier tastes of men who plied deepwater shipping. There, the sky above the roof peaks teemed with raucous gulls. The puddles in the gutters reeked of flotsam and fish, a furlong removed from the exquisite walled mansions of the riverfront. The division between saltwater commerce and fresh lay demarked by the customs keeper's compound, its seaside encroached on by sagging, tiled roofs and the storm-weathered planks of old warehouses. The market became the hub of activity, with its channeled gutters of herringbone brick spanned by the pilings of squatters' shanties. Behind them, the half- plank tenements loomed three stories above the street-level sprawl of bawdy houses and dilapidated taverns. The mews in between held the seamier sailors' dives, wedged amid tangles of cobblestone alleys scarcely wide enough to pass single file.

Arithon traversed the bayside mazes on foot, his lyranthe slung from his shoulder. His step was unhurried, almost meandering, and 185.

JANN WIJI~T$.

everything living made him linger. He dallied to peruse the trinkets spread on open-air tables; conversed with the idlers leaning on lamp- posts, or carters, wolfing hot pastries over their slackened reins.

Caolle wore his sword and shadowed his shoulder. Made jumpy by the lazy accents of townsmen and the hated enclosure of city walls, he insisted on keeping his hands free. Which left Dakar to heft his tin- ker's gear, the saddle packs of spare clothing, and the manful share of complaints.

"Don't pretend you didn't notice that circle of ash in the market square." Disgruntled since he had dismissed the painted redhead whose playful fingers had promised fine dalliance, he groused, "They burned some poor wretch for the practice of unclean sorcery only yes- terday."

A pause, filled by the Mad Prophet's puffing as they jagged up a narrow stair and passed a darkened archway through a close. His chorus rang plaintive echoes through a courtyard choked with frost- withered flowerpots. "The merchants should riot. Who will craft fiend banes if everyone with mage-sense cowers in fear of execu- tion?"

Down a rickle of heaved flagstones, the party of three emerged back into daylight, with Caolle's grip white on the sword as Arithon stalled again on his course.

Dakar scarcely avoided crashing into him. Blinking like a mole past the bundles clutched to his chest, he snapped, "If you're going to give silver to every beggar we pass, my back will break before we find an inn."

Arithon broke off a quiet sentence with his latest fascination, a raggedy old salt propped on a crutch. "That's heartless bad man- ners," he admonished.

Less eloquent, the beggar hawked and spat on the offensive Prophet's boot.

"You toad-humping spawn of a maggot!" screeched Dakar The beggar cracked into devilish, deep laughter "Now didn't you say the same on the day you crammed yourself into that beer cask and we heaved you afloat on Garth's Pond?"

Dakar's eyes widened. The jab of Caolle's elbow into barely healed ribs nipped his cry of recognition just in time. "I'm sorry," he gasped when he could manage civil speech. Through another glare at Arithon, he added, "Our singer here has a soft heart and a head as addled as a duck's egg. We'd all join you in the streets before he'd let a layabout go hungry."

The beggar flashed a tigerish grin, none other than the lame joiner 186.

FUGITIVE I~RINCE.

whose past touch at subterfuge had once helped the theft of a princess's ransom. "Ye won't lack for beer and feather mattresses, I'd say. Not in the company of a bard whose playing could charm life into a stone gargoyle. The Laughing Captain, hard by the shipyards, is a tavern to welcome a good singer."

That suggestion passed off in languid disinterest, Arithon pursued, "If Lysaer's royal guardsmen are busy burning talent, what does this city do for fiend bane?"

The beggar scratched his chin. "Well now, the Koriathain fashioned the talismans for the yard. Merchant guilds signed oath of debt for that." An expert lag, while scruffy fingers poked for lice; until Arithon's hand obligingly dipped into his purse. In glad speculation, the joiner delivered. "For the rest, we had a good bell founder."

Arithon's interest lit. "Had?"

"Aye. Man's fair useless to anyone now. Born without perfect pitch, see? Can't rematch the tone since one of his master set's cracked." Nonplussed by Dakar's scowl, the scoundrel joiner palreed coins as though he had begged all his life. "Strolling that way, are you? Yon craftshop's off Chandler's Alley."

Yet if the bell founder's plight concerned Arithon s'Ffalenn, the path he chose to the harborside became everything else but direct.

His small party tailed him in and out of three wineshops. Underneath the planked walkways which linked the close tenements, he shared biscuits with the filthy children who lived by picking pockets in the shadows. Dakar battled his shortening temper. Each move seemed to fuel his anxiety. More than once he spun around, certain someone was dogging his heels. He saw only slinking alley cats and rats. His skin stayed nipped into gooseflesh, as if the creatures were golems raised from bones, and set spying by furtive conjury.

Oblivious, Arithon loitered to gossip with a laundry girl, rinsing linens on a gallery, while Caolle dodged wind-scattered droplets of runoff, and Dakar fumed in annoyance. His chastised survey of each chance-met acquaintance revealed no other familiar faces.

The day wore past noon. Arithon jaunted through the sailors' mar- ket, loquaciously intrigued with its glass beads and shell trinkets; its whalebone charms against drowning, and its philters and potions mixed against ague and hangover and whore's pox. He chaffed the apothecary and acquired a posy of dried catmint. A second talisman maker sold him assorted tin scraps in a sack.

Jostled by a press of tar-smell'rag riggers, they withstood the buffet- ing sea breeze while Arithon purchased a burgundy silk waistcoat trimmed with mother-of-pearl spangles.

187.

Before suffering another zigzagging course through the market, Dakar balked and dropped all the packs on the cobbles. "No more."

Arithon looked at him, eyebrows raised, then unslung the lyranthe from his shoulder. "Hold this," he bade Caolle, then balanced his sack of tin leavings on top of the load.

R/ght there in the street, amid rumbling drays and carters who swore and reined their racketing teams around him, he donned his ridiculous glad rags.

The maroon-and-gold garment clashed stupendously with moss green hose. Dakar gave way to disgust. "Spare us all, you're a sight to make a corpse walk."

Arithon grinned, an edged flash of teeth. "I agree. After the clothes, who will look at the face?" He asked back his instrument, to Caolle's relief, then waded undaunted through the rows of shawled women packing salt barrels.

Dakar's vociferous frustration cracked echoes off the mews cho- sen this time for an exit. He sucked in a breath and choked on the miasma of tar and hot wax. His next comment was expelled as a cough. They had entered Chandler's Alley from the north. The craft- shop of the benighted bell founder loomed ahead, every casement boarded up, and its signpost demolished to slivers. The cobbles beneath were sugared in smashed glass and the shards of pulverized roof slates.

The Mad Prophet gave the warped door, the bent nails, the litter of bashed casements his expert survey, and chuckled. "Ath. The iyats are having themselves a field day."

Arithon leaned close, cautious in a realm where mage talents lay under interdict. "They're still here? You can see them?"

Dakar nodded. His trained eye picked out the whorled dimples of distressed air which pocked the shop front and the surrounding alley, unmistakable trace of the energy sprites' presence. "The whole place is riddied. Do you guess this is sport, or plain revenge for the fact the warding bells are out of true?"

"Likely both," said Arithon s'Ffalerm in delight, "and for us, a rap- turous throw of fortune." He banged on the door, which swung inward on shrieking, bent hinges.

A short step into a lanternless dimness, then a violent stir from the shadows: an angular crane of a man scrunched across a piney spill of sawdust, most likely scattered to cushion the impact of tools the rampaging iyats might throw down. "Are you blind?" he howled in calamitous agitation. "Get you out. We're fiend plagued and closed!"

Dakar cringed, face masked in his hands; Arithon tucked back an 188.

xhalation suspiciously like laughter; while the fiends, busy crea- tures, rocked into a wakened frenzy of assault.

fA tin cup chained to a fallen washbasin gyrated in crazed circles in the dark. Something else made of wood, a potstand or a close stool, ~ galloped to life on a circling course to smash ankles. Caolle yelled, [ stamped down on an offending pair of fire tongs which tried to stab holes in his boots, while a row of tin canisters rocked as if to dump themselves over his head.

"Ath, see what you've done!" the bell founder screeched above burgeoning commotion. "The blighted infestation has started all over again!"

Iyats enjoyed feeding upon human rage. Hand-wringing, dithering hysteria teased them on. Recharged to delight, they obliged, and seized on wild energy to fuel a new round of pranks.

The cup snapped its tether, shot off into space, and clanged into a hamper of metal scrap. The lot toppled with a deranged, bell'mg crash over the workbench with its crucibles and anvil. Filings and scrolls of shaved iron whirred airborne, a threat to eyesight and flesh. Through that scourging storm, and the craftsman's imprecations, a sound to drill through quartz: Arithon whistled a shattering threnody.

Scrap metal dashed to the floor like dropped chaff. The close stool toppled flat and lay with its legs po'mted skyward, while from every darkened comer, the artisan's dropped wares belied in resonant, dis- sonant sympathy.

The rampaging fiends ceased their mischief. Under threat of disso- lution from those ranging harmonics, they unraveled their energies from purlo'med items and fled. Their departure, willy-nilly, raised small flurries of ripped air, the ping of popped nails, and a staccato barrage of cracked boards and burst shutters. Inside a handful of heartbeats, the sawdusty gloom subsided to muffling silence.

"Praise Ath Creator!" The bell founder gaped. His protuberant eyes cast right and left, but saw nothing except blessed stillness.

"Here's a bard!" Nary an iyat remained on his premises, and the impact of rescue sank in. "A bard with a true ear for fiend bane." He kicked through his muddle of violated belong'rags, snatched Arithon's sleeves, then thumped to his knees and gushed out his tear- ful apologies. "I had no idea. None. Forgive my rude welcome. What amends can I make to beg for a ward on my shop?"

"A fee." Arithon slipped his wrists free of moist fingers, amused and cool, but not unkindly. "You've no cause to plead. I don't have the talent to set lasting protections. But to place the pitch to recast your cracked bell, a sum of ten silvers will suffice."

189.

J..4'..-~.,~v /4r~,'.,4~-5 "Bless you m~[" ~e craffsm~ scrambled erect and cit~sed on ~ find with doggish, backslapp~g eagerness. "~at's far less than y0m talent dese~es."

C~e ~c~& ~ &~ ~ ~-~x~& ~x~, ~ ~c~ ~ ~ ~ respect sho~n ~o ~s Yxege as for the ~voXous delay. Arithoif s h~0~ stayed un~ffied. For a private man who disliked berg touched, he weaVered his paffon's ~c~ous handl~g with s~i~ng equa~.

~ich anomaly at last snapped Dakar to cold thought. He ~d accompa~ed Arithon's travels too long not to sense another sea~ thread of subter~ge. Nor did his h~ch prove ~splaced. ~e repua- ~on the bard earned in that one afternoon won them the most sm~ ~ous, private room ~ ~e Laug~g Capta~ Tavern for tb~ ;e~,~)ba, week, free of charge.

Event fell out with na~ral elegance that, after Arithon's m0~ng of ply~g gossip kom passersby and his kesh notorie~ at the bell founder's, a nonstop s~eam of ~verton's folk should stop t0 exchange words ~ the taproom.

Nor did eve~ admirer wear the face of a s~ger Dakar rec0g- ~xzed a ropewalker, a handel of canlkers, ~d ~o doxies ~ed through the arms of a suspiciously ia~xYxar s~x~and. A stree~ c~k~ sidled up, brother to one who had se~ed them before as inform~t through a forced stay ~ Jaelot. Ath alone ~ew how the filthy ~lte had tracked Arithon the width of the con~ent.

Inevitably also came Cat~ick, covert conspirator to the Shadow Master's cause, and paid master of Tys~'s royal shipyard.

Dakar caught first sight of h~, a bluff, square man whose muscu- lar ~ead rivaled Caolle's for s~eng~, and whose presence exuded authori~. He elbowed his way t~ough the press of galleymen, carous~g dec,ands, and off-du~ royal ~ards as if he expected due deference, ~s immense, callused hands broad enough to span the slopp~g rims of four tankards. ~e squat to ~s eye from sight~g straight board lengths, or the l~es of new keels on their bedlogs, had grown more pronounced t~ough the years s~ce the Khetienn's first launch~g ~ Merior La~ shocks of brown hair still licked his wide shoulders, a new gleam of silver at the temples.

~e g~ff, ram's horn bellow he used ~ the sawpits vanquished the taproom's ra~ noise. "Beer for you, singer, and for your compan- ions. You'll need to get d~ to raise any me t~ough this racket."

He barged himself a seat on an overcrowded bench. ~e redolence of p~e res~ and coal smoke kom the boiler sheds laced through the ~g, and earned glares kom a foppish pair of soap merchants. Cat- trick scarcely cared. Braced on ~s forea~ ~ a loose, sailhand's 190.

shirt, ne cut an enormous, roug'n ~q clean in his flashy silk waistcoat and the tankards brimmed over, his still~ ~cars arid c['tsm'tssed them. The weal~ ca?ec~ cloak me~i~eck ~xo cl, ose~ s,a~w indolent, small frame of the singer 1'

took note of Dakar's closemouthed, ered back. "Demons take all, minstr bed a bony-arsed spinster. Are ye brought fresh-squeezed cider?"

Arithon grinned. "Man enough ~C~ta~o i'~rc'bI~,'2f% c~(2Ofr~ AK~rl.k~".

reversed, he stung back. "Best you month. Or did the street gossips your last brig sailed hull down ov no doubt, by her ill-fitted seams, habits."

"Tongue xke a viper, you have.

who can shrill sour notes to bm s~ at~m t~ ~oeex,~r~x~ se~Xe~ B~ lidded gaze still hunting. "BeyoJ your rffx~k-tongued caterwaulinl moonSaced in their cups, and I'

come the morning. Sprung plan]

to sight north and south on a rn bold, you'll have enemies vying gatekeep."

A smile from the bard,,then a4 to a standstill, first. It by then,.

with the rest, let's find out who'

The burly master joiner palrr stare. This game was not new.

lence; if they came with quirks nose led, he must expect to cros., "Well?" needled the bard.

Cattrick slammed the trestle tured a man whose interests h~ no regret for that incident; nor bargainer chose to bury the n done and Dharkaron take the 1: tankard in cocky salute, shove{ refill, while Arithon received a~ ]ANNY WUI~TS.

"Bless you man!" The craftsman scrambled erect and closed on his find with doggish, backslapping eagerness. "That's far less than your talent deserves."

Caolle scuffed sawdust in stiff-lipped distaste, as much for the dis- respect shown to his liege as for the frivolous delay. Arithon's humor stayed unruffled. For a private man who disliked being touched, he weathered his patron's unctuous handling with striking equanimity.

Which anomaly at last snapped Dakar to cold thought. He had accompanied Arithon's travels too long not to sense another seamless thread of subterfuge. Nor did his hunch prove misplaced. The reputa- tion the bard earned in that one afternoon won them the most sump- tuous, private room in the Laughing Captain Tavern for the rest of the week, free of charge.

Event fell out with natural elegance that, after Arithon's morning of plying gossip from passersby and his fresh notoriety at the bell founder's, a nonstop stream of Riverton's folk should stop to exchange words in the taproom.

Nor did every admirer wear the face of a stranger. Dakar recog- nized a ropewalker, a handful of caulkers, and two doxies twined through the arms of a suspiciously familiar sailhand. A street child sidled up, brother to one who had served them before as informant through a forced stay in Jaelot. Ath alone knew how the filthy mite had tracked Arithon the width of the continent.

Inevitably also came Cattrick, covert conspirator to the Shadow Master's cause, and paid master of Tysan's royal shipyard.

Dakar caught first sight of him, a bluff, square man whose muscu- lar tread rivaled Caolle's for strength, and whose presence exuded authority. He elbowed his way through the press of galleymen, carousing deckhands, and off-duty royal guards as if he expected due deference, his immense, callused hands broad enough to span the slopping rims of four tankards. The squint to his eye from sighting straight board lengths, or the lines of new keels on their bedlogs, had grown more pronounced through the years since the Khetienn's first launching in Merior. Lank shocks of brown hair still licked his wide shoulders, a new gleam of silver at the temples.

The gruff, ram's horn bellow he used in the sawpits vanquished the taproom's rank noise. "Beer for you, singer, and for your compan- ions. You'll need to get drunk to raise any tune through this racket."

He barged himself a seat on an overcrowded bench. The redolence of pine resin and coal smoke from the boiler sheds laced through the fug, and earned glares from a foppish pair of soap merchants. Cat- trick scarcely cared. Braced on his forearms in a loose, sailhand's 190.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

~hirt, he cut an enormous, rough figure alongside the bard, neatly dean in his flashy silk waistcoat and cap of feathered, pale hair. While the tankards brimmed over, his stilled, intense eyes took in Caolle's scars and dismissed them. The weapons concealed by the clansman's caped cloak merited no closer survey. His attention swept over the indolent, small frame of the singer he knew for the Master of Shadow, took note of Dakar's closemouthed expectation beside him, then flick- ered back. "Demons take all, minstrel. Ye've scarcely the substance to bed a bony-arsed spinster. Are ye man enough, or should I have brought fresh-squeezed cider?"

Arithon grinned. "Man enough to deplore the childish need for contests involving strong drink." That opening salvo cheerfully reversed, he stung back. "Best you stay sober for your launching next month. Or did the street gossips malign you for nothing? They say your last brig sailed hull down over the horizon and vanished. Sunk, no doubt, by her ill-fitted seams, if you rate a man's wits by his bar habits."

"Tongue like a viper, you have. Same as every other skinny warbler who can shrill sour notes to banish iyats." Cattrick downed a vast swallow of beer, his settled bulk like an owl on a branch, his half- lidded gaze still hunting. "Beyond wails for fiend bane, what use is your milk-tongued caterwauling? Lure out my craftsmen to hang moonfaced in their cups, and I'll have smashed fingers in the yard come the morning. Sprtmg planking too, if the lads get too muddled to sight north and south on a measurement. Mind your step. Go too bold, you'll have enemies vying to spike your feckless head atop the gatekeep."

A smile from the bard, then a challenge. "Let me play this taproom to a standstill, first. If by then you aren't flopped beneath the trestle with the rest, let's find out who's effete over fine brandy in private."

The burly master joiner palmed a belch and gave back a level, hard stare. This game was not new. Arithon chose his associates for excel- lence; if they came with quirks or tmruly character, or balked at being nose led, he must expect to cross wits to extract the service he angled for.

"Well?" needled the bard.

Cattrick slammed the trestle with a fist, the same that had once tor- tured a man whose interests had thoughtlessly crossed him. He held no regret for that incident; nor would he lose sleep if this latest slick bargainer chose to bury the memory. "You want a contest? Said is done and Dharkaron take the hindmost." The shipwright drained his tankard in cocky salute, shoved erect, and plowed his way back for a refill, while Arithon received an unsettled glower from Caolle.

191.

]ANNY ~UI~ TS.

"I thought you claimed you had Cattrick in hand," the Mad Prophet murmured, voice muffled as he peered into the dregs of the beer the ship's joiner had left him. "Those insults came barbed, or I'm a grandmother goat's arse."

Arithon shot off a sparkling run to retest the pitch of his strings.

"It's a[[~ea]ou~)~" he agreed, eyes alight with innuendo. "Somebody's welcome was a shade ~oo waa~n and that clerkish little guardsman behind us returned a bit too pointed an interest,"

Before Dakar could weigh evidence to tell if the threat was a glib ab- rication to divert him, the bard rollicked into the reeling, first measures of a bawdy dockside ballad. His tempered voice cut the noise like struck bronze, suspending discussion and argument. Nearby drinkers erupted to their feet with yells of delight. Wolfish sailhands stayed their dice games, and merchants, their dickering, while barmaids caught the coppers flung onto their trays and bustled to the tap to fetch tankards.

By the time the bard closed the last chorus, the common room rocked to the thrill of discovery. He gave his audience no chance to let down, but flowed seamlessly on to the fast, fired lilt of a hornpipe.

Town ministers started stamping, despite their immaculate velvets.

Tar-begrimed deckhands whistled and leaped on the trestles to clog step, then dragged doxies along as the frenzied, wild tempo rocked up one key and took flight. A figure of calm amid heaving pandemo- nium, Arithon played, head bent and foot briskly tapping. His spirit led the dance, surrendered on demand to the weave of the intricate melody. Precise as stitched gold, each grace note splashed out in ecstatic execution. His was command of a masterbard's style and to any with mage-sight, the air in his presence became charged into glit- tering brilliance. His listeners could not help but ignite in conflagra- tion, while the trained snap and flex of his fingers wrought joy from wound metal strings and inspiration.

Through stamping applause, the landlord shoved in to extend pledge of free lodging. "Whatever the house has to offer, it's yours as long as you're minded to stay."

"A year for one percent from the till, and the coin any well-wis~ng'r~ toss at my feet," Arithon bargained.